Budapest Noir (14 page)

“Zsigmond, Zsigmond. What have they done to you?” she asked, reaching for his right hand.

“They ran away in the end,” Gordon moaned, pulling away his hand.

“You stay here,” said Krisztina, running her fingers through Gordon’s bloody hair, “I’ll call Mór.”

Gordon replied, “Don’t you worry, for once I’ll stay right where I am.”

When Krisztina returned, she was carrying a wet towel that she now carefully wrapped around Gordon’s hand. She also wiped the blood from his face. When Mór arrived hardly ten minutes later, Gordon looked much better, given the circumstances. The old man took just one glance at him before pronouncing, “Call an ambulance.”

“Not that, Opa. Not that. You’re here, and that’s just fine for me.”

“Son, you won’t get far with me. I was just a wretched district doctor, not a surgeon.”

“Please try all the same, Opa,” said Gordon. The old man sighed. “I’ll examine you in your flat. If you can get up there, that is. If you can’t, you’re off to the hospital.”

Gordon slowly staggered to his feet. Mór and Iváncsik each reached for an arm, then helped him up to the second floor. Krisztina had already opened the door and in the bathroom had put out a few sheets along with the first-aid kit they’d gotten from Mór. Gordon sank into a chair, and Krisztina gradually undressed him. Although she had to cut the trousers off him, she managed to pull the rest off. Using the sheets, she then washed Gordon’s upper body and thoroughly cleaned the wound on his forehead and his lips.

“Can you go into the room, son?” asked the old man, eyes sparkling with worry from behind his round glasses.

“Yes, Opa,” replied Gordon. With Krisztina’s help, he went into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

“Krisztina, can you give us a minute?” said Mór. He then opened his medical bag and proceeded to examine Gordon. Once finished, he said, “If you don’t piss blood tomorrow, you can stay at home. But if you do, it’s off to the hospital with you.” Krisztina, who of course had not left the room but was leaning up against the doorjamb, sighed with relief. “And your hand didn’t break, either,” continued Mór, “just one of your fingers snapped out of joint, that’s all. I’ll set it back in place. It will hurt, but I’ll do it fast.” Gordon nodded, and the old man grabbed his wrist tight with his left hand and his index finger with his right. First he yanked the finger forward, then pressed it back in place. Tears formed in Gordon’s eyes.

“You didn’t say it would be like this, Opa.”

“And I haven’t even tended to your head wound,” said Mór. “You’re just lucky it’s not long, otherwise it would have to be sewn up, and I don’t like doing that. The blow tore a vein, which explains the blood. Krisztina, hand me the iodine.” He wrapped a matchstick in cotton, dipped that in the little bottle, then thoroughly cleaned out the wounds on Gordon’s forehead and lips.

“Drink this, Zsigmond,” said Krisztina, handing him a cup.

The old man nodded by way of approval. “Go ahead and drink it, son.”

Gordon gulped down the plum brandy. His eyes slowly closed and his head slumped to the side.

Six

W
hen Gordon awoke in the wee hours of the next morning, he felt firsthand the typical boxer’s refrain: “In the ring it only hurts a little. Afterward it hurts more. But that’s nothing. The real pain comes the next day.”

Everything hurt. His head and his kidneys throbbed with pain, as did the fingers and palm of his right hand. But he could stand. He staggered out to the living room. Krisztina was sitting in front of the window, drawing by the light of the reading lamp. Leaning against the door, Gordon watched her. He had watched her draw on several occasions, sometimes for as long as a half hour. He’d seen many illustrators—mainly police artists and court reporters—but their work had never absorbed him so. Sometimes he, too, tried his hand at drawing, but he was incapable of decently depicting even a street map. Krisztina’s hand moved over the paper with complete, consummate confidence. Hardly ever did she stop to think, and rarely did she make a mistake. She’d already illustrated several storybooks, and as only Gordon knew, when it came to drawing children, Krisztina’s models were her relatives. She hadn’t seen them for years, but she had preserved their memory since childhood. Since she was of Saxon descent, it was clear from the outset that she would study in Germany. Her father had relatives in Weimar, and so Krisztina attended the Bauhaus school there. She did not hold firm to this approach to art but gladly went about planning posters and building façades, and, indeed, the pavilion of the light-bulb manufacturer Tungsram at the Budapest International Fair was built from her designs. Never did she have a normal job, no matter what that might have meant. She always worked alone, on request, and never went looking for work—work always found her. Gordon often asked her: “And when will there be a Krisztina Eckhardt exhibit?” Krisztina hated being called an artist; the only thing she hated more was being called a suffragette. Men were both suspicious of her and respected her; behind her back they gossiped about her. Not that she cared. While she didn’t deny that she agreed with the movement for women’s equal rights, she wasn’t too vocal about it, either. “People should stick to asking about what I draw and design,” she often told Gordon. The upshot was that she didn’t have girlfriends, either, in the traditional sense. She didn’t understand women who suffered in bad marriages, women who kept lovers, and what she deemed the meaningless self-sacrifice supposedly endured for the sanctity of marriage and family. Rarely did she go out with friends, and when she did, it was with similar women. And they played cards. Bridge, which Gordon just didn’t get. For him, the only mystery greater than Krisztina herself was bridge.

And so Gordon stood there in the doorway, his limbs hurting, burning, throbbing. Mór was sleeping on the divan. Krisztina rose to put a blanket over him. That’s when she turned and saw Gordon. She cast him an angry look and was about to say something when Gordon brought a finger to his lips. He motioned for her to join him in the bedroom.

“You’ll find a letter in the inside pocket of my blazer,” he said when Krisztina entered the room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and trying hard not to move. “Bring it over to me.”

Krisztina found the envelope, looked it over, and extended it to Gordon. “Read it out loud, Krisztina,” he said. “I don’t think I could even pick it up.” Krisztina opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in two. She cleared her throat and began to read:

My dear, sweet Fanny, I miss you like the devil. I miss you terribly. What will I do with myself without you? The days drag along, and not even the Torah helps. I look to it for answers, but find none. I seek answers everywhere. What is the answer if I love you with all my heart, and our being together is more important to me than everything else? What is the answer to their wanting to tear us apart? It’s not by chance that my father became a rabbi. Maybe he doesn’t really know the answer to everything, but he acts as if he does, and that’s enough for people to believe him. They respect him, they love him, they fear him. I share with them only the last of these sentiments. My love is now for you alone. Remember what I told you in that restaurant? Well, don’t forget it. And don’t forget me, either. I’ll work things out somehow—how, I don’t yet know, but I’m constantly racking my brains. To finally be able to be with you, to be able to freely kiss your lips, to freely hold your hand, to freely look upon your lovely eyes. I want to make up for everything—for everything—and it is my firm intention that you should be the happiest woman in the world, even if no one else wants this to be so. Your devoted Shlomo.

Krisztina refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “Don’t you want to tell me what this is all about? What you got yourself beaten up for? Do you feel better, by the way?”

Gordon tried to smile, but his torn mouth made it look more like a grimace. Then, slowly, faltering, he told Krisztina the story of his visit to Red Margo.

“And this is so important to you that you’re willing to get your brain knocked out because of it?”

“Now that they’ve already half knocked my brains out, yes.”

“Zsigmond, don’t you go playing the hero,” said Krisztina, standing up.

“Calm down. I’m not playing the hero. But what else can I do? How could I look in the mirror if I didn’t try catching the person who did this? How would you look at me if I didn’t try?” Gordon didn’t see the point in sharing the threat made by the man with the crooked nose. But he had to act, and fast.

Krisztina gripped the back of the chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Clearly she wanted to say something, but instead she turned around and left the room. She nearly knocked down Mór, who, disheveled and sleepy, stood in the doorway holding a tray, on it a glass of milk, a slice of brioche, and a jar of jam. “It’s a waste filling him with your jam, Mór,” said Krisztina. “He’s so hardheaded he should be eating cement.”

“My grandson, oh, my boy,” said the old man, shaking his head, “you just eat this up now, and then we’ll talk.” He put the tray down by the bed and then sat beside the window. He watched in silence as Gordon slowly ate it all. “Last year’s peach jam,” he said finally, “that turned out pretty well.” Gordon nodded approvingly, then tried standing up.

“Where to, son?” asked Mór.

“I’ve got business to tend to, Opa.”

“For the love of God, you’ve got no other business than to be lying down and moaning.”

“I can moan even without lying down,” said Gordon.

“It will work better if you’re lying down,” said Mór, shaking his head.

“I can’t do that now, Opa. I’ve got to go.”

“Go? Where in the name of sweet holy hell do you have to go? You can’t even get up, much less go. But even if you managed, you’d terrify people out on the street, that’s how hideous you look.”

“I’ve got to go to Dohány Street,” said Gordon. “There’s a rabbi there whose son is called Shlomo.”

“If you ask me, there’s not just one such rabbi out there.”

“Then I’ll find this particular one and have a talk with him.”

“I’ll go talk with them all,” proclaimed Mór.

“You?”

“Yes, me. Zsigmond, you really can’t go anywhere. You’ve got to rest. What do you want to find out about that rabbi?”

“About the rabbi? Nothing. I want to find out about his son, and I want to know everything about his girlfriend.”

“I shouldn’t ask why, right?” asked Mór, fixing his eyes on Gordon. He patted down his hair, and with his other hand he buttoned his vest askew over his wrinkled shirt and necktie gone awry.

“Don’t ask, Opa.”

“I’ll go on one condition,” said Mór.

“Condition?”

“That’s right. Now you be a good boy and go to the bathroom and piss into this glass.” The old man extended a water glass to Gordon. “If your urine isn’t bloody, I’ll go. If it is, you’ll go—to the hospital. And for once I won’t open a debate.”

Gordon sighed, and staggering to his feet, he grabbed the glass and his cigarette case. Gritting his teeth, he went out to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and, standing before the mirror, lit a cigarette. Exhaling smoke, he examined his face. He looked like some wretched boxer who’d run face-first into the glove of one serious opponent. A bandage covered the wound on his forehead, above his left eye. Mór had tied it tightly, but the blood had seeped through the gauze. Gordon’s lower lip was cracked and swollen. As he ran his tongue over it, he winced. His eyes were bloodshot, to be sure, but at least he hadn’t gotten a black eye. All in all, he didn’t look too bad. Gordon had to forgo shaving and the use of his right hand, which, bandaged as it was, still throbbed mightily. The old man had put some magic ointment on his nightstand for Gordon to apply to the wound. A clean suit and shirt, and he’d look presentable enough.

Gordon stood in front of the toilet and raised the celluloid seat. He took the glass in one hand and, wincing all the while, began to urinate. When he finished, he raised the glass. Not even a trace of blood. He set down the glass beside the sink, carefully washed his face with cold water, combed back his hair, and left the bathroom.

“Here you are, Opa,” said Gordon, putting down the glass in front of the old man. Mór held it up to the light and gave a sigh of relief.

“Son,” he declared, “I’ve never been so glad to see piss.”

“All right, then,” said Gordon, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “But now you’ve got to promise me a couple of things.”

“Go ahead.”

“Keep an eye out on the street. Is anyone following you? Don’t just pay attention to the pedestrians but also to the cars. When you leave the building, look around carefully to see if you spot a parked car with someone behind the wheel. Stick close to the buildings as you walk, but move to the edge of the sidewalk every time you pass a doorway. Make some sudden stops along the way and look behind you, but not conspicuously. If you see anyone who looks suspicious, don’t confront them; sit down in a café instead, order a drink, then come home.”

“Understood,” said the old man.

“You might not turn up anything, by the way. It’s Sunday, after all—Dohány Street and the streets around it are like a ghost town today.”

“Don’t you worry, son. I’ll work it all out.”

“Just be very careful.”

“I will. And you will stay home and stay in bed.”

“That’s what I’ll do, Opa,” said Gordon.

“Krisztina!” Mór called out. Once she appeared in the doorway, he added, “Don’t you let him get up. He’s got to stay in bed, or else who’s to say what will become of him.” He stood up and mindfully rebuttoned his vest. Krisztina adjusted his tie, whereupon he pressed his hat onto his head and went out the door.

Hardly had his grandfather left the flat when Gordon rose up out of bed. With unsteady steps he went to the telephone and, using his left hand, picked up the receiver. But then it hit him that dialing with his bandaged, throbbing right hand would be impossible. He set down the receiver and tried dialing with his left hand, but it didn’t work. Krisztina watched from the doorway as Gordon hobbled over to the window, picked up a pencil, and used it to dial. But the pencil kept slipping out of his hand. After the fifth attempt, he angrily threw the pencil to the floor and turned to Krisztina. “Would you help me already, for the love of God? Or are you enjoying this?”